Chapter 25

Bertie came running out of the bedroom, her face pale under the gray hat she loved. “We have to go,” she threw at Sinclair on her way past him.

Sinclair caught her by the arm. “Wait. Why? What did he say to you?”

Bertie wrenched herself from his grasp. “Tell you downstairs. When we’re out of this place.”

She made for the door in a swish of skirts and was gone. Sinclair, instead of following her, strode to the bedroom and went inside.

“What did you say to her?” he demanded of the two in the room.

Mr. Frasier peered at Sinclair from his bed. He didn’t look good, but he also didn’t look near to death’s door. Ill yes, but not fatally. “Mr. McBride, is it? You take good care of my girl, all right?”

“You lured her here,” Sinclair said sternly, ignoring him. “Didn’t you? What’s your game?”

“We had to,” Mrs. Lang said, her dark eyes anxious. “We couldn’t trust no one to tell her but us. Bertie will explain. Best you go now. We can’t risk anyone knowing we spilled anything to Basher McBride.”

“The entire street knows I’m here,” Sinclair said impatiently.

“Yeah, but won’t be us who told you, will it?”

“If you’re in danger, you should leave.”

Frasier laughed at him. “I’ve lived on this street man and boy. Me mates are here, me lady . . . me whole life. I’m not going. I’m proud of Bertie for trying to better herself, but I’m not in a hurry to move far from my local, am I?” Another wheezing laugh. “Fancy me walking into any other pub but me own. They’d take me head off on the spot.”

Mrs. Lang held the man’s hand. “I’ll look after him. You take care of our Bertie.”

“I intend to,” Sinclair said.

Frasier’s voice went stern. “If you don’t marry her yourself, you marry her off to someone with plenty of blunt who’s good to her. Understand me?”

Sinclair had started for the door, but he turned back, his anger tight. “You beat her,” he said clearly. “You used her to rob and steal for you—too afraid to do it yourself, were you? You’ve forfeited any say in what happens to her. She’ll never be hurt again, that I can tell you for certain.”

“Just tell Bertie . . .” Frasier said. “Tell her she’s a good girl. Always was. Like her mum.”

He was a sad old git, Sinclair decided, but Sinclair had seen many a man turn contrite when he thought the end was nigh. Frasier probably did feel remorse, but that didn’t excuse what he’d done. “She’s a wonderful young woman,” Sinclair said. “And she’ll live like a princess. Good day to you.”

He turned his back on the two and made his way out of the flat and down the stairs. Bertie waited for him in the carriage, the pugilist next to it.

“You took your time,” Bertie said as the pugilist opened the door.

Sinclair climbed inside and landed on the seat beside her, her body warm against his. It would be more proper to sit opposite her, but to hell with what was proper. “You don’t have to be afraid, Bertie,” he said. “Don’t let whatever he told you rattle you.”

Bertie brushed back her hat’s feather. “All I know is, I want out. My dad was good to warn me, but I bet Mrs. Lang made him do it. The old soak doesn’t want anything blowing back on him. Well, I’m finished with it all.”

“Pleased to hear it.” Sinclair tapped on the coach roof for Richards, once the pugilist had slammed the door. “Now, what did he warn you about?”

Bertie related the conversation, and Sinclair listened in growing unease. “I’ve heard of Devlin,” he said when she finished. “Your father’s not wrong—he’s dangerous. But don’t worry about him. I’ll have one of Inspector Fellows’s men . . .” Sinclair turned his head as he saw what he couldn’t believe he saw out of the landau’s fogged window. “Richards, stop!”

Sinclair was out of his seat, opening the door of the moving coach even as he heard Richards’s whoa.

“Here!” Bertie grabbed at Sinclair’s coat, her voice rising to a screech. “What are you doing?”

Sinclair shook off her grasp, then his boots hit the pavement just as Richards pulled the horses to a halt.

He’d seen a face up the street, one from his past, though it was not a face he expected. The man belonging to it wore a fine greatcoat and hat, very out of place in this area of workingman’s caps and rough jackets.

The man was walking rapidly away. Sinclair ran after him, never minding the swarm of people crowding between him and his mark. “Stop, blast you!” Sinclair yelled at the retreating back.

He heard the click of Bertie’s boots behind him, her calls to him. Sinclair didn’t respond. He sped his steps, reached the other man, and pulled him around to face him.

The man stared back at Sinclair, not in surprise or shock, but in stark anger. He knew Sinclair would be here, damn him, likely had been following him every step.

“James Maloney,” Sinclair said. “What the hell are you doing here, and why aren’t you rotting in prison?”

Bertie paused as she saw Sinclair confront the man. She didn’t recognize the gent, but he dressed well, and his face was soft, his body trim and not bent by hard work.

The pugilist behind her caught up, not happy. “Don’t like to leave the coach unguarded,” he growled.